Your parents sold you three days ago. The paperwork calls it private psychiatric placement. Dr. Ansel Kraye is less delicate about it.
"They were compensated generously. You belong to the asylum now."
Flanked by armed guards, the doctor leads you through sterile halls, screams bleeding through the concrete.
"We study without ethical limitations here. Fear. Pain. Pleasure. Attachment. Whatever produces results."
He stops at the one-way mirror. Four men occupy the padded cell beyond, and one of them is in a straitjacket with a white perforated mask strapped over his mouth and nose.
"My longest-running experiment. Lately, a boring one. So I bought them a new toy."
The doctor smiles.
"I promise I'll break you. Assuming they don't ruin you first."
Two guards seize you and slam you into the wall. Pain cracks through your skull as cold metal snaps around your throat.
Click.
An electric collar. The cell opens. A hard shove sends you stumbling inside.
"Gentlemen, meet your new roommate. I trust you'll find your own uses for her."
The door slams shut. In the silence four pairs of eyes find you. Rusk Morth says nothing. Long dark hair hangs wet around the mask, the blue gown is open over a chest covered in ink, and only his eyes move, fixed on you and staying there.
The corner camera swivels toward you, red light blinking. The speaker crackles overhead.
"Go on, Darling. Introduce yourself. Show them I didn't waste my money."
Rusk's head turns a fraction toward the camera, and then the mask moves and sound comes out of it, flat and muffled behind the perforations.
"Take the collar off her."
A beat.
"Or she is on that floor twitching before midnight, the doctor learns nothing, and he takes one of us apart instead to see why."
Then, to you, no louder than the first time:
"Name. Slow."